


I’ve got your words in me

by eleanor_lavish



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn’t fuck up assignments very often.  This time, he’s pretty glad he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ve got your words in me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my cheerleader [](http://misspamela.livejournal.com/profile)[**misspamela**](http://misspamela.livejournal.com/) and to my awesome beta [](http://giddygeek.livejournal.com/profile)[**giddygeek**](http://giddygeek.livejournal.com/) and to Phil Coulson for being such a fucking BAMF.. This is my first fic in months, and my first in this fandom, but certainly not my last, no sir. Title from Jenny Owen Youngs, _Voice on Tape_.

For a place filled with secret labs and weapons and people who could kill you with pencils, there is surprisingly little to do at SHIELD headquarters. It’s only been four months, but Clint has been living there for long enough that he’s done pretty much everything he’s sanctioned to do, and a lot he’s not, and mainly he spends his waking hours at the range, or reading paperback westerns, or catching up with the Kardashians.

Clint’s secure enough in his team status that he doesn’t have much shame about his habits anymore - Natasha calls him a Neanderthal, but he likes to believe she says it with love. Clint watches his shitty television in the main lounge, feet on the chrome and glass coffee table. He glares at anyone who even thinks about changing the channel, mostly because he finds some fucked up joy in the way they fumble their coffee cups and flee the scene. It gets to the point that the lounge becomes Clint’s second living room, and new agents are warned off the area before Clint can even make them cry a little. Clint likes being the top dog - Natasha excluded - but he sometimes wishes for more of a challenge.

“Really?” Clint hears one day, and he looks up from Kim and Khloe’s screaming match to see Phil Coulson stirring his coffee, one eyebrow raised.

“Can I help you with something?” Clint says, adding an extra dose of menace to his voice. Phil just raises the other eyebrow and walks over to sit on the other end of the couch.

“No, I’m good,” Phil says, reaching over and snagging the remote. He flips until Gordon Ramsey’s face is two feet high on the flat screen, red from screaming. Clint stares at Phil, half-shocked, half-pissed the hell off.

“I was watching that,” Clint says, and Phil just _looks_ at him.

“Spoiler alert: Khloe didn’t ding Kim’s car, it was totally Kris, and Brody is a douchebag.”

It’s Clint’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “If you’re watching ‘Kitchen Nightmares,’ you have an affinity for douchebags,” he answers. Phil just smiles enigmatically at the television.

“That I do,” he says. Clint laughs in spite of himself, and decides a day off from the Kardashians isn’t a terrible loss.

*

“Stay off the comm,” Phil says, low in Clint’s ear, and Clint honestly can’t help himself when he says, “You first.”

Phil sighs.

Two hours later, there is still no sign of the mysterious Ugandan arms dealer Clint is waiting for, and the space he’s carved out for himself in the rafters of this old airplane hanger is stifling in the summer sun. “You okay up there, Hawkeye?” Phil asks, and Clint grins into the darkness.

“I totally knew you’d cave first, Coulson.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a contest,” Phil replies, but Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

“Everything’s a contest,” he says, blinking dust out of his eye and cracking his neck once.

“I guess that could come in handy in some arenas,” Phil says, then, “Coming in at your ten o’clock - prop plane.”

“I got it,” Clint murmurs, and it’s radio silence for a while after that, until Clint’s hit his targets and Phil’s confiscated the weapons. Clint doesn’t think about Phil’s answer until they’re on a chartered flight back to the states. Phil is talking on the phone to someone - probably Fury from the way the vein in his neck keeps popping - and Clint’s pretending to nap across from him. Just because he can, Clint lets his legs fall open a little wider, shifts so his fingers are brushing in inseam of his cargo pants. He’s not watching, but only part of a sniper’s talent is sight - Clint can hear Phil’s distracted hum, the slide of expensive fabric as Phil crosses his legs. It’s all Clint can do not to give away the game by grinning.

He wakes up five hours later to Phil Coulson murmuring in his ear, “Come on, if we hurry, we can make the season finale of ‘The Apprentice.’”

*

Clint knew it was always Fury’s plan to put together a whole team. He tries not to feel insecure when Fury comes back to HQ with a parade of shiny new toys, always just this side of giddy as one-by-one he gets them to play along with the Initiative. He’s been around the longest, he’s valuable - or at least he tries to remind himself of that at meetings.

Tony Stark is an asshole, and Bruce Banner is sometimes an _actual fucking monster_. Thor’s biggest skill is getting girls to fall for his burly, blond “your eyes are like the sea” schtick. Clint can certainly appreciate Steve Rogers, the Iceman, the one Fury’s been waiting for; that doesn’t mean that Clint actually likes it when the team starts coming together.

He hates that they take over his lounge, and that more superheroes somehow translates to more bad guys. He’s not a fan of Steve’s halting commands over tech he doesn’t yet understand, and he’s not a fan of Thor’s insistence that real combat means hand-to-hand. In a perverse sort of way he loves how Tony Stark’s mere presence in a room causes Phil to clench every muscle in his body, like he’s talking himself out of homicide.

What he can’t appreciate is what the new Initiative means to the rapport Clint had at HQ with the... well, not really with the staff, but with Phil. They’ve been on a dozen gonzo missions together at this point, and Clint is used to Phil’s voice being the one in his ear.

Mostly, he hates that he and Phil haven’t had a chance to watch this season of “Top Chef,” alone with the television, both of them playing armchair food critic while Clint makes lewd comments about Padma’s outfits, Phil’s tie just a hair looser than usual.

*

“Barton, my office,” Phil says one slow morning. Clint would normally be watching the fourth hour of “The Today Show” but somehow Tony has decided Thor needs to watch “Road House,” so Clint’s mostly just glaring at them from the window seat.

Ten minutes later, he’s blinking across the desk at Phil Coulson, who has the audacity to look completely nonplussed.

“This was not the Special Ops assignment I was expecting, Coulson,” Clint stands with his arms crossed, trying to look annoyed and not amused. Phil’s blank expression gives him no indication whatsoever of whether he’s succeeding.

“It’s going to cause trouble, and you know it,” Phil replies evenly. Clint sets his shoulders back a few inches.

“Trouble how?” he asks, not like they both don’t know the answer.

“Stark.” Phil sighs, like all the problems in his life would be solved if he never had to say that name again. Clint kind of likes Tony, some of the time. He doesn’t bring that up to Phil, though. “Barton,” Phil says, and Clint frowns at him until Phil sighs again, getting up and walking around the desk to stand squarely in front of him. Clint usually forgets that Phil has an inch or two on him, but right now Clint’s feeling distinctly... small. “This one came from Fury - he wants me to ‘just get it the hell done.’ The team’s already gossiping. And the second Rogers makes a call in the field that Stark doesn’t like, he’s going to start tossing the V-word around.”

“Verisimilitude?” Clint says, just to be an ass. Phil shakes his head, but Clint can see the corner of his mouth struggling not to smile.

“The other one.”

Clint puts his arms down and scrubs one hand over his face. Life with SHIELD is always strange, but this is just. Stranger than normal. “Just to be clear: you want someone to seduce Captain America.”

Phil nods.

“And I’m the first person you thought of?” he asks, not quite able to keep the cocky grin out of his voice.

“For Stark to back off, it can’t be some wide-eyed kid - it has to be someone on the team. Let’s look at the options, shall we?” Phil says, and Clint smiles - he loves when Phil gets sarcastic. “Thor is... Thor. And Jane wouldn’t love it. Natasha would eat him alive. We don’t have any idea what that kind of activity would do to Dr. Banner. And that leaves...”

“Me and Stark. Right. Point taken.”

“The last thing we need is Tony Stark trying to stake a claim there.”

“You think that would be so bad?” Clint asks, and Phil raises one expressive eyebrow. “Fine, okay. But I think you’re skipping over one logical candidate.”

“Hmm?” Phil says, and Clint wants to smack that confused look off his stupid face. He takes two steps closer, until they’re almost nose-to-nose. Clint’s feeling a little reckless. “I’m pretty sure we can consider you part of this team, dumbass,” Clint drawls, and the tips of Phil’s ears go distinctly pink.

“No.”

“No? You not up to taking one for the team, Coulson?”

“Your puns are horrifying. And it’s not... proper.”

Clint stares at him. “And me? I’m proper?”

“You’re never proper. That’s why you’re perfect,” Phil says, and Clint wishes he’d recorded that, to play back later when he’s in trouble for being _improper_. “Anyway, the Captain’s not really my type.”

“And you think he’s _my_ type?” Clint says, then pauses. “Humble, smart, All-American hero? Yeah, I think that’s totally my type, actually. Throw in a suit, I’m good to go.” Phil rolls his eyes again, and Clint grins at him, leans in enough that his fingers brush Phil’s arm.

“And how are you gonna know I got the deed done?” he murmurs low in Phil’s ear, lips almost close enough to catch on skin.

“I’m sure you’ll give me a full debrief,” Phil replies, and Clint tosses his head back and laughs.

*

Clint didn’t think it would be _easy_ to get in Captain America’s pants, but he’s distinctly unprepared for Steve’s flat-out refusal.

“No, Clint, stop it,” he says. Clint’s got him pressed against the wall of the Armory, one hand brushing his belt.

“Come on, no one has to know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the underside of Steve’s jaw, and wow, okay, that was the wrong thing to say because Steve is bodily _lifting_ him out of the way to put three long strides between them.

“I really thought you were better than this, Barton,” Steve snaps. “I know I haven’t been around in a while, but fidelity and honor and _promises_ , man, those used to _mean_ something.”

“No, that’s not - “ Clint starts, but Steve is working himself up into a patented Rogers Morality Lecture, and all Clint can do is lean against the wall and try to refrain from shooting himself. Honestly, Clint’s _grandma_ didn’t have ideals this high-and-mighty.

“In a team like this, we can’t ignore those kinds of promises,” Steve says. “Every day we go out there, and we come close to dying, and it’s about _trust_ , Hawkeye. It’s about me believing that if you say you have my back, you do.”

“I do, Jesus!” Clint says, rolling his eyes. “I have your back, Steve!”

“How do I know I can trust you with my life when I know I can’t trust you with someone’s heart?”

Clint is honestly not sure where this thing went off the rails. This was supposed to be an _assignment_ , and not a particularly terrible one. Right now, he feels like he’s being judged and found wanting on some completely unknown criteria. “This has nothing to do with what happens in the field. If you’re happy being the world’s oldest living virgin, that’s just fine, no harm, no foul, Cap. I’m certainly not asking for your goddamned hand in marriage.”

Steve is glaring at him now. “I’m not interested in being your little something on the side.”

“On the side of _what_??” Clint yells.

Steve looks honestly taken aback, which Clint is glad for until... “You. And Agent Coulson. I mean. You’re not? Tony and Natasha said you were practically married.”

Clint blinks at him and tries to ignore the panicked feeling welling up in his chest. “It’s not like that,” he says, because it’s not. “It’s... we flirt. That’s it.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking honestly chastised. Then, “Why?”

“Why do I flirt with him?” Clint says, because that seems obvious. Phil Coulson is more fun to flirt with than anyone at SHIELD, including Steve. He’s smart and hot and completely unflappable. Getting any reaction at all out of him - a blush, a half-smile, that one time Clint even got Phil to snort coffee - pretty much makes Clint’s fucking day.

“No, why is that it? I mean, you _like_ him, right? I’m not great at this, but I think that you like him.”

“I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know, Steve,” Clint groans, tilting his head back against the wall. “He’s my boss.”

“I’m your boss,” Steve says, and Clint shoots him an amused look. Steve huffs. “I mean, out there, I’m in charge, and that certainly didn’t stop you from -” he flaps his hand between them.

 _If only you knew_ , Clint thinks, but mostly Steve’s right. He hadn’t hesitated in taking this assignment, and it wasn’t because he had some secret hard-on for Captain America. He took it because Phil Coulson asked him to, because he hasn’t gotten laid since he and Phil started this... whatever it is they’re not doing, because doing it might mean a few hours alone with Phil later, trying his best to make Phil blush. “He’s not. It wouldn’t. Fuck, nevermind,” he says, suddenly exhausted. “Doesn’t matter. Sorry.”

Steve looks at him for a second before clapping his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Come on, hey. Let’s go get you drunk.”

Clint thinks that sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic plan.

*

Clint is not at all sure how they ended up wherever they are, but he knows that Steve is the only thing keeping him upright as they stumble through what looks like the Upper West Side. Who would have thought that Steve Rogers was the kind of low-down son-of-a-bitch to get a guy drunk and then talk about goddamn feelings. _That’s just un-American_ , Clint thinks, and snorts at his own joke. But they’d ended up at one of Clint’s favorite dive bars, and Steve put about fifteen rounds on his SHIELD debit card before Clint started babbling about heartache and rejection and, holy fuck, he may have sung some Bonnie Raitt.

They end up in an average-looking apartment building - maybe he has old friends in the neighborhood? But Steve’s friends are older than old, and mostly dead, and Clint feels really bad for him for a minute until Steve props him up against a wall and honest to God ruffles Clint’s hair. Clint glares at him. There’s a loud banging sound which normally would have Clint on alert, but when he looks up it’s just Steve, knocking hard on an apartment door.

His heart almost stops when Phil answers.

“Here,” Steve says, hoisting an unsteady Clint over the threshold. Phil puts his arms out to catch him and Clint flinches back. “You deal with this.”

“What the hell?” Clint says to Steve. Phil is pursing his lips together like he’s really mad, or really amused.

“And next time,” Steve says, pointing his finger at Phil, “you can stay out of my damn love life until you get your own straightened out.” He slams the door pretty hard when he leaves, and Clint hisses a little at the sound.

“So,” Phil says, “you told him.”

“I... probably?” Clint says, because he doesn’t remember much of the last hour, but he remembers the phrase ‘high-class, government-issued sex machine’ (he thinks he was talking about himself) and ‘Fury just needs a pimp suit and a cane, man’ and also how someone had a ‘pretty fucking _mouth_ ’ (and, Jesus, he’s pretty sure he was talking about Phil, there). “Fuck,” he breathes and Phil sighs at him.

“I threw you a softball on this one, Barton, and you managed to screw it up in under a week,” Phil says as he guides Clint to his couch. It’s soft and brown and just like the one Clint would buy if he didn’t live in a fucking windowless box at headquarters.

“He’s so _nice_ ,” Clint groans, listing sideways and pressing his face into the arm of the couch. “I think he’s saving himself for true love, man.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Phil says, and Clint shifts his head enough to squint at Phil, standing over him with arms crossed. He’s wearing his dress pants and a white button-down, but the jacket and tie are gone, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up almost to the elbow. Clint would have guessed Phil wasn’t a jeans kind of guy, and this looks about as casual as Phil will ever get. It’s awesome.

“You’re awesome,” he manages, and Phil snorts. Clint grins at him.

“You’re a mess,” Phil shoots back, but he doesn’t start yelling, or lecturing, or calmly shooting Clint in the head, so he guesses he’s safe for now. “Come on, Romeo, let’s get you back to headquarters.” He reaches down and hoists Clint to his feet. Clint forgets that Phil has muscles under all that suit.

“Ugh, can’t I just -,” Clint starts, but then he stumbles a step, right into Phil’s airspace. Phil’s arm is tight around his waist and Clint sways a little. “- stay here,” he breathes and Phil is looking at him hard, lips parted just a fraction.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea, Barton,” he says tightly.

“Why?” Clint answers, almost a whisper.

“Because assets shouldn’t be off-base without prior authorization -”

Clint makes a choked, frustrated sound. He knows the _rules_ , and he knows Phil tends to fall back on quoting them, scripture and verse, when he’s at a loss. “No, why can’t I _stay_?” he asks, and... there it is. Why can’t Clint stay, why can’t Phil just keep holding on, why are they doing this at all if not to eventually end up here?

“I’m not supposed to get this close,” Phil says, matter-of-fact and right to his face, strong and straightforward and all the things Clint likes about him.

“Why?” Clint asks again. His head is clearing a little; he doesn’t feel that drunk anymore, but he’s still way off-balance. He pushes back, takes a step away from Phil. The last thing he wants is for Phil to feel cornered right now. They’re both breathing hard.

Phil looks at him, then down to the worn wooden coffee table. “It might affect my judgement in the field,” he says quietly, and Clint swallows hard. Right. Because Phil is the one who makes those calls. Phil is the one who sends them all into impossible situations.

“I know I’m the most expendable,” he starts and Phil tries to interrupt him, tries to feed him the same garbage about teamwork and parts of a whole. Clint grabs his shoulder and gives it a good shake. “I’m not an idiot, Coulson,” he says. “This isn’t about that, just. I know I’m probably going to be the first one gone.” It’s not something he tries to think about, but honestly, he’s not an idiot, and Phil shouldn’t treat him like one. He’s not super-anything, other than with a bow in his hand, and he’s a good fighter, a great one, but he’s not Steve, or Tony in that suit. He’s not a god, or a killing machine. He’s just a really good soldier with above-average aim. Phil’s jaw is clenched tight. “Out there, I don’t expect you to make any call but the right one,” Clint says because, fuck, he _trusts_ Phil, not to keep him alive, but to keep the bad guys from winning.

“I think you’re vastly overestimating my ability to compartmentalize when it comes to you,” Phil answers.

“I think you’ve vastly overestimating my ability to understand your Harvard vocabulary right now,” Clint replies with a small grin. “I trust you.” They’re going to lay it all out, and Clint’s not going to be a pussy about this. He steps back into Phil’s personal space, crowds himself against the warmth of Phil’s chest. “You trust me?”

“You’re drunk,” Phil says, but he’s almost smiling.

“Don’t change the subject.” Clint wraps his fingers slowly around Phil’s forearm, feels the scratch of hair against his palm. Clint wonders how long it’s been since anyone else has felt this, has touched Phil like this. Looking up at his face, pupils blown wide, Clint would bet it’s been a long time. Too long, for both of them. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says, because he’s a gentleman, and because the last person on earth he wants to startle is Phil, who could probably incapacitate him with a paperclip.

“Okay,” Phil manages, and Clint leans in. It’s a soft kiss, nothing like the fantasies Clint’s allowed himself, jacking off in his shower. It’s like a fucking 1950’s teen angel kind of kiss - no tongue, just the feel Phil’s mouth on his, sweet with what tastes like ginger ale. Clint breaks it off with a ragged breath, and Phil is panting. “This is... I shouldn’t do this. The team -”

Clint presses their foreheads together. “They already think we’re married, you know,” he says. “Steve says Natasha actually broke into the New York State registry to try and confirm it a few months ago. She had some sort of bet with Jane.” Phil’s laugh is just this side of hysterical. “Come on, this team is already as dysfunctional as it’s possible to be. Making out with me _cannot_ fuck it up any more.”

“This is a monumentally bad idea,” Phil says, but he’s leaning forward to kiss Clint again, so Clint lets it go. They make it to the couch - Clint _loves_ this couch, seriously - and they don’t go any further than slow, easy kisses, Clint’s hands pulling Phil’s shirt loose from his slacks so he can feel warm skin, Phil’s fingers tightening in Clint’s hair. Clint shifts so one denim-clad thigh is pressed against Phil’s groin and they both moan. “Maybe,” Phil says, coming up for air, “we should take this slow.”

“Mmmm,” Clint hums against Phil’s throat. “We are.” Honestly, if it was anyone else, Clint would have been all kinds of naked by now. Phil sighs his I-am-surrounded-by-likable-idiots sigh.

“Okay, fine,” Clint says, and he rests his head against Phil’s shoulder and just listens to their breathing. It’s nice, really nice, and Clint presses his nose to Phil’s throat and thinks, _I could do this forever_. “Jesus fuck, I think the Cap is actually rubbing off on me,” Clint groans.

“Funny, I thought you were actually rubbing off on someone else at the moment,” Phil deadpans, and Clint lifts his head.

“That’s. No,” he says. “No terrible puns, Coulson, not in bed.”

“You love puns. And we are definitely not in bed,” Phil notes, scraping his fingers lightly over Clint’s scalp.

“We could fix that,” Clint says hopefully, smiling his most beguiling smile.

“Does anyone ever fall for that?” Phil snorts, and Clint shrugs. “Okay, fine,” Phil says, “but only because I don’t savor trying to sneak you in to headquarters at 3am.”

“I will make it worth your while,” Clint promises as they lurch inelegantly off the couch.

“How do you know I won’t make it worth yours?” Phil retorts with a grin, and Clint thinks it’s all been worth it - every secret he’s kept for SHIELD, every crazy mission he’s been sent on, the tiny, windowless box that he calls home - if he gets to have Phil Coulson. “C’mere,” Phil says, and pulls Clint close. “I’m going to get you so hard you’re fucking begging for it,” Phil’s voice is low in Clint’s ear, calm and alert, like he’s giving a goddamned briefing. “But you’re not going to come until I tell you to, alright?”

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, then “Yeah.”

Clint knows that Phil is basically a ninja in disguise but the way he manhandles Clint through his apartment, stopping twice to push him against a wall for some serious kissing, Clint thinks Fury has absolutely underestimated Phil’s actual skills as an asset. They make it to the bedroom with absolutely no scraped elbows or bumped shins, which Clint considers a damn miracle. When they get to the bedroom Phil kisses him once, hard, and then steps back three steps to slowly, methodically take his clothes off. Clint just watches for a long minute until Phil looks at him, amused and a little wary.

“You know, you could also be getting naked,” he says plainly, and Clint smiles.

“Yeah, but then I’d be missing the show.” Phil rolls his eyes, but Clint doesn’t miss the slow blush that blooms on his cheeks and - what do you know - slips down his neck and over his shoulders.

When Phil is down to grey boxer briefs, his emergency phone and his watch laid out neatly next to the cuff-links on his dresser, Clint finally pulls his shirt over his head, kicks his shoes off, wrestles out of his jeans in under ten seconds. “Impressive,” Phil says dryly, like it’s not impressive at all, but Clint _knows_ how to impress. He gives a gentle roundhouse to the back of Phil’s knees, grabbing his arm and twisting in midair until Phil lands on his back on the mattress and Clint straddles his waist triumphantly.

“I know,” he says, and Phil honest-to-God laughs, his belly shaking under Clint’s thighs.

Phil reaches up to tangle his hand in Clint’s hair and pull him back down for a kiss, and they’re back to making out, this time in nothing but their underwear, skin catching against skin as they shift and roll. Clint doesn’t know why they’re both not naked yet, like somehow the step between here and nudity is a real thing, like they’re not so close that it’s inevitable. Clint doesn’t mind it, though, this middle place where they can just gasp and curse, where they can get to know the scars and stories of each others’ bodies without their dicks getting in the way.

Soon enough, though, Phil’s rolled them so that he’s on top, and his kisses along Clint’s jaw drift lower and lower, low enough that Clint knows where this is going. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says when Phil’s hot mouth closes wetly around his cotton-clad dick, and Phil half-grins up at him.

“I thought I’d just start here, see where we end up,” he says, and he’s still so infuriatingly _calm_ even though Clint can feel the stutter of his pulse when he pushes his hands into Phil’s hair.

Clint clutches at Phil’s sheets as Phil sucks his cock like he’s got all the time in the world, and every time he swirls close to the edge he scrabbles for control, stills everything until it’s just him and his heartbeat, and Phil’s gorgeous mouth. He’s not sure how long Phil keeps him there - time doesn’t have much meaning when Clint’s in this space, when he’s waiting for the go order, finger on the trigger, waiting for someone, for _Coulson_ to give him the okay to release, to let his arrow fly. It could be minutes or hours or _days_ for all Clint knows, but he’s not going to fuck up this assignment. He holds on, closer and closer, and when he hears Phil murmur, “Now, Clint,” he lets go and just _flies_.

Clint is still coming down when he feels Phil’s mouth hot on his shoulder. Phil’s arm is moving, hand moving in punishing strokes over his dick, and Clint reaches down to join him, to slide their fingers together. “You could fuck me,” he murmurs low, nose pressed to Phil’s sweaty temple.

Phil’s groan is loud enough to be jarring. “Too close, _fuck_ ,” he gasps. “Next time, baby?”

Clint is glad Phil’s eyes are closed; the look on Clint’s face is probably really stupid - some expression between shock and joy. “Yeah, fuck yeah, next time you can open me up nice and slow,” he manages, speeding up his strokes. Phil grits out, “Jesus, _Clint_ ,” before he’s coming all over their fists, his body hot and thrumming.

*

It turns out that Phil is surprisingly _not_ a morning person, so they manage to get through most of the usual shower-pants-coffee routine without saying anything more than single syllables to each other. Clint doesn’t worry about it, though. He’s used to spending hours with Phil, not talking, and when Phil plants a thoughtless kiss on Clint’s bare shoulder as he waits for the coffee to percolate, Clint thinks he might owe Steve a serious favor.

They take separate cars to headquarters, thirty minutes apart, but somehow the lounge is full of knowing looks when Phil calls them all in for a morning briefing. Clint glares at Steve who puts his hands up in a placating ‘not-me’ gesture. “So,” Natasha says, eyes dancing. “That was some excitement down in the genetics labs last night, huh?”

Phil looks up sharply. “What excitement?”

“Large beasts with arms as long as legs, swinging from the walls and screeching like an Asgardian Knu-beast in heat,” Thor recounts, his smile wide. “We smote them down!”

“They were weird monkey things. We herded them back to the labs,” Steve says, visibly embarrassed, and Phil looks at him sharply.

“Steve thought we shouldn’t bother you with it,” Natasha says mock-innocently. “He said you’d been working too hard.” Phil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Tony hums from across the room where he is sitting way too close to Steve, his legs splayed open so wide on the sofa that their knees press together. “And Barton was strangely absent,” he adds with a glance over his sunglasses. “Anything you need to tell us, Barton? Out getting drunk and making bad decisions? Been there, done that. You know, the first step is admitting you have a prob - “

“Okay, I have to go get briefed on whatever the hell you’re talking about,” Phil barrels right over Tony, “and then we’re going to run some field combat drills, how does that sound? _Great_ ,” he finishes over the grumbling and strides out of the lounge.

Clint ignores the looks Steve is trying to give him, and the looks Tony is clearly giving Steve, and the way Thor is banging way too hard on the coffee machine. He picks up the remote and flips to an episode of “Teen Moms.”

“Man,” Tony says, “your boyfriend is a _bitch_ today, Barton.”

Clint just flips him off with a lazy grin, because they know, they _all fucking know_ , and it doesn’t matter, not one bit, not here or in the field or anywhere in between.

  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I've got your words in me by eleanor_lavish (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/270409) by [inkjunket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkjunket/pseuds/inkjunket)




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